


within reach

by chartreuser



Series: domesticity [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:56:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon thinks that he could learn how to live like this. That it could be simpler; not running away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooooo this is a continuation of domesticity! And I know the entire first chapter is just porn, but... (fortunately/unfortunately) the rest of it won't be this way! As with the last fic, it'll be mainly plotless fluff because we need some of that, don't we??? We do, right?!
> 
> And as for the first chapter: I don't know what I'm doing. Help.

Napoleon has self-control.

No, _really_ , he does. No matter what Peril says, he's perfectly capable of not giving over to impulse; it's the one of the better lessons he'd learned from being a spy. 

Does _Napoleon_ throw tantrums? He thinks not. 

So why is Illya in between his legs now, pressing fleeting kisses to his cock? 

"Peril," he grits out between his teeth, watching him lick a stripe up his shaft. He's clearly happy about whatever point he was trying to make. Heck, Napoleon is already beginning to forget what they fought about in the first place. "Peril, Illya, isn't this a bit too— _ah_ "

Illya pulls off and drags a finger over Napoleon's thigh, ignoring the way he's jolting against the touch. "Too what, Cowboy," he drawls, pressing his tongue against his slit. Napoleon thinks he's ready to combust. He's prepared to crawl out of this body if Illya Kuryakin still won't give himself the pleasure of fucking him. 

"Too strong for a demonstration," he smiles weakly, knees nearly buckling as Illya takes him into his mouth. His hands are cold, where there are in contact with the back of his legs, but Napoleon thinks he might be addicted to Illya's hands sometime soon. Napoleon likes them incredibly, really, what with how long and slender they are. They're always utilised to their maximum capabilities when handling a gun, when they're sturdy under the weight of something inhumanly heavy, or their coldness when Illya slides three of his fingers into Napoleon, slick with lube and _dexterous_.

He moans, and Illya sends him a scolding look. "I could stop," he threatens, and Napoleon feels nearly embarrassed by the panic that rises up in his chest. Nearly. Now, he thinks he'll do anything to appease Peril; he'd even be happy with just his cock on his tongue. "But you don't look like you want me to." 

Napoleon swallows, and thumbs at the scar beside Illya's eyes. He leans into the touch, lips red and wet from his pre-come, and Napoleon takes a deep breath, not wanting to finish this too early. 

Illya is watching him, gaze dark and predatory, and Napoleon shivers, feeling his warm breath release over his length. "So, Cowboy," he wraps a hand around Napoleon's dick loosely, and Napoleon shudders with its suddenness, how _good_ if feels. "Do you want me to stop?"

Napoleon thinks he's going crazy with what's happening to him. His cock is straining against Illya's loose fist. Napoleon takes in the sight of him like this, on his knees. Somehow, Illya is still looking like he's the one to answer to, and he is caught writhing under his ministrations. 

"Please," Napoleon chokes out, shivering as one of Illya's fingers stroke upwards. " _Please,_ Illya."

He's begging. He can't believe he's begging, but he doesn't know what else to do, Napoleon feels like he's empty and starved for touch—

"I didn't know that you were aware of that word's existence, Cowboy," Illya sends him a smirk, touching him gentler now, smearing the pre-come downwards with the motions of his fingers. "Or is it only when it comes to the matters of your cock?"

"I—yes. _Yes_ , Peril, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_ —"

"So you are sorry now," Illya says almost lazily, his grip on Napoleon tightening. "But are you really?" Illya leans his head onto his inner thigh, and Napoleon can feel the faint catch of his stubble like this, rough and almost demanding. 

What he doesn't expect is for Illya to slide his lips down his dick and suck, hard and rough and absolutely _perfect_. "Yes, yes— _ah—_ "

He raises an eyebrow at him, and Napoleon groans, lightly, small sounds escaping from his mouth. He's going to have a heart attack. He's going to pass out in the middle of an orgasm because Illya refuses to put his cock into his ass. 

"I need—" Napoleon gasps out, and he grasps at Illya's shirt, feeling terribly inarticulate. This arrangement quite unfair, really, because Napoleon has his shirt undone and pants somewhere by the door, but Illya is still fully-dressed. The only thing missing from his standard ensemble is his cap, but the hard outline against his trousers is _promising_ , and Napoleon _wants_ it. 

"Cowboy," Illya says, looking at him with warm affection, and Napoleon remembers the way he'd stood behind him in an art museum back at London, the entire affair still feeling like a dream. He runs his fingers through his hair, and looks at him properly. His eyes are half-lidded and there are scratch marks that Napoleon had left on the night before. 

Pulling away for a few seconds, Illya shrugs out of shirt, and Napoleon is struck by how much he had wanted him. How much he still wants him _now_ , to feel Illya inside of him, murmuring promises in Russian. 

"Fuck me," Napoleon pleads, his eyes wide. He wonders how he looks like now; if the sight of him wild-eyed and distraught is causing Illya to look at him like a predator, hungry. 

Then Napoleon feels something wet slide between his cheeks, and gasps at the coldness he finds there. Illya doesn't spend too much time preparing him—but it's okay. The both of them know that he found pain to be stimulating, under the right conditions, and Napoleon can't think of a better condition than having two of Illya's fingers in him _right this instant._

"Oh," Napoleon squeezes his eyes shut, hips thrusting forwards involuntarily as Illya's fingers crook just _right_. "Illya, _Illya_ ," he mutters, not entirely aware of what he's saying. He can't think when Illya's fingers are rubbing against him like this, and doesn't care if the wounded sounds are actually coming from himself. 

Illya's eyes flicker up to his, and Napoleon's head slams into the wall. He thinks about the taste of Illya's come in his mouth, salty-bitter, and wonders if Illya likes the heaviness of him on his tongue, the flex of his thighs under his palms. He thinks of Illya's satiated grin from when he wakes up the morning after, and the heat of his body that are lacking in his limbs. 

_I'm his,_ Napoleon thinks, and his heart lurches at the realisation. He presses his fingers into Illya's shoulder harder, signalling that he's close, and Illya sinks his mouth down to the base of his cock again. He swallows when Napoleon comes, and presses a kiss to his inner thigh before standing back up again. 

A few minutes have passed when Napoleon comes to again, realising that Illya is still hard in his trousers. He's watching his expressions, Napoleon realises, and something like desire churns in his stomach all over again.

Napoleon wraps his arms around Illya's neck and pulls him in, noticing the tug at the corners of his lips before he kisses him. 

"I meant it," he says when they pull apart, "I need you to fuck me."

Illya raises an eyebrow at him, and Napoleon yanks down the zipper in his trousers, pushing his stupidly big frame towards the bed. He falls onto his back, not the least bit clumsy, and Napoleon purses his lips. 

"Cowboy," Illya says tentatively, and Napoleon disregards him, gasping slightly as he sinks down on his cock, fixing his eyes onto his scar, the redness of his mouth. 

"Peril," Napoleon presses his forehead against Illya's for a minute, before he starts to move, feeling Illya's thrusts strengthening underneath him. He thinks he's never going to get used to this, having him inside of him, gentle and rough at the same time. 

Napoleon has self-control, he knows. It just doesn't appear when it comes to Illya. 

Probably sensing his train of thought, Illya leans in to suck another bruise underneath Napoleon's jaw, and he sighs wantonly, content. He flips them over so that Illya is above him, now, and meets his thrusts halfway. 

"Am close," Illya warns, and Napoleon presses a kiss to the side of his neck when he comes, sliding down to rest above him. He climaxes a second time, himself, surprisingly, and digs his fingers into Illya's back, and Illya lets him. 

Illya's pulse thunders under his lips, and Napoleon thinks that this is always how it should be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's something wrong with my wrist, and i'm on medication, but i'll try and get the next chapters up without delaying too much! (as i possibly can, anyway. this shit hurts like a bitch.)

Perhaps Napoleon can be _a little_ too self-assured at times, but he's not entirely stupid. He expects the higher-ups at U.N.C.L.E. (Waverly) to be displeased with his period of absence, and to be sent off on a mission once he steps through the office: but nothing happens.

"That's it?" Napoleon raises an eyebrow, not expecting the quick dismissal Waverly had given him. "No new missions, nothing?"

Waverly swivels in his chair. Napoleon suspects that he's been having too much fun spinning around it, like the little kind grandfather he is. "Not now, Solo, no, but I expect you to be present when there is," he says, and Napoleon takes that as a cue to leave. 

Illya meets him on the way out, looking in Waverly's direction before squinting at him. "What happened."

"Nothing did, actually," Napoleon shrugs, walking onwards. "Which is rather strange." 

He thinks that Illya is a little too pleased with what he's hearing. "Peril," he calls out, watching the stupid giant happily eat a sandwich as they walk out of headquarters. "Did you say anything?" 

"What makes you think that, Cowboy," he says, and smiles at an old lady as she walks by. Napoleon tries his hardest not to roll his eyes. 

When he looks back at Illya, he's pausing in front of a bookstore, crossing his arms as he examines a paperback through window display. Napoleon notes down the title, and turns to find the street name. "Back to normal, then?" Or whatever it should be. He tries not to think about the house he had left behind in England, or the leisurely afternoons, or Illya on his sofa, cleaning a gun. 

He wants to go back. Napoleon wonders if this would count as running away, or if anyone would be surprised if he took off with anything valuable. Or someone, he supposes.

Illya moves to fall into step with Napoleon again. "I guess so," he shrugs, and glances at him. "You okay, Cowboy?" 

"Just a little under the weather," Napoleon says. 

Illya doesn't respond. He's studying him closely, hands minutely twitching at his sides, and Napoleon has gradually realised that it's a tell for when he's being indecisive. 

"Weather's a bit cold. If I didn't know better I'd have mistaken New York for London," he adds, attempting a lighter tone. "Let's just get some coffee, shall we?"

He's afraid to make eye contact with Illya, not wanting to know what he'll find there. He's an easy person to read; once you dig deep enough and is familiar with his temperaments. _Getting_ there wasn't, but Illya isn't an easy person in the first place. 

Napoleon doesn't know if it's a conscious decision of Illya's to find them a cafe next to an art gallery, but he's grateful all the same. 

"You know," he says, in between his mouthfuls of toast, "I think about dropping off the radar, sometimes." 

Illya blinks at him, unmoving, and Napoleon is fiercely reminded of the first time they had talked to each other, aggressive and eager to insult. 

"You think about it a lot more than 'sometimes', Cowboy." Illya looks towards a faded scar, and Napoleon tries not to hide away under his gaze. He doesn't like having anybody being so attuned to his emotions, but this is Illya, and he thinks it's not so bad. 

"Of course," he looks away, "I _have_ been attempting avoidance for the last few months. Until you found me."

Napoleon pauses, and looks down to his plate. He doesn't know what had made him sound this bitter, but Illya is speaking before he could offer his apology. 

"Yes," he says, and something softens in his gaze. Napoleon thinks he admires him for this, how he likes to address everything that comes his way at first glance. He's not the same; he lacks the careful consideration that Illya gives anything, prefers to live fast and loose and free. 

"You said you wouldn't stop me, next time."

"No," Illya agrees, "I told you, Cowboy. Next time I come with you."

***

Illya has an apartment near the business district, but a distance away from headquarters. It's clean, simple and ridiculously organised, but this _is_ Illya. 

It's a safe house, but it's obvious that Illya likes this place, is reassured by its clean lines and artfully-placed furniture, sleek and bare. It's almost a little clinical, but Napoleon is aware that his tastes can get a little extravagant at times. He mentions this to him one evening.

"Yes," Illya says, and turns his head away from the chessboard. Napoleon thinks he needs more hobbies. "Why. Don't you like it?" 

"No? No, I think it's wonderful. Just a bit under-furnished, don't you think?"

Illya rolls his eyes. "You think every house needs bathtubs filled with gold and wallpapers made of money."

Napoleon squints at him. "I don't. I just like my house to look like someone lives in it."

Illya gives him a faux-sympathetic look. "Then buy some plants. They're living enough."

Napoleon sighs a bit dramatically, and flops down to the sofa, next to where Illya is sitting, and presses their thighs together. 

"Would you water them?" He asks, noting the pawns in the game. Illya is remarkably good at this, the shifting, the manoeuvring, and Napoleon tries to imagine him in some occupation rather than this. Would the scar at the side of his eyes still be there? The raised marks that splay across his chest—

"That's going to be your responsibility, Cowboy," Illya turns to press a fleeting kiss to his lips, standing when he's done. Napoleon finds it ridiculous that he hasn't gotten tired of that yet; although it has been quite some time since he's—

Two years. He hasn't had a romantic partner in all that time, Napoleon realises. That every encounter he had was just a casual fling, a woman or a man he would have met once and left the morning after. 

He has also been partners with this tall, Russian giant for two years. 

_Oh,_ he thinks, and waits for the panic to sink in, but it doesn't come. 

Illya has his eyes narrowed at him. "Cowboy?" 

"Peril," he reaches up, hooking his fingers around his wrist to pull him down. "Are we living together?"

The abrupt laughter that comes after is warm, honey-smooth and Napoleon doesn't trust himself to stop from standing to kiss him again, so he doesn't. 

***

There's a cactus on the table the next morning. 

"It's your fault if it dies," Illya says, scratching at the faint stubble on his face. He isn't so neat in the mornings (although indefinitely more conscious than Napoleon), and Napoleon's fingers itch with the urge to draw him like this, unguarded and warm and thinks: _of course I'm in love with him, how could I not?_

"I won't," Napoleon stands in the doorway, drumming his fingers against the frame and grins. "We're gonna have animals about the place before you know it."

"Oh no," Illya says dryly, his face overly-exasperated, but Napoleon recognises the fondness in his eyes and knows that he won't be going anywhere without him, not for a while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't tell you what i'm doing bc i've got no idea myself

They're in Illya's apartment when Napoleon asks, almost-timidly, "is your mother still alive?"

He doesn't know what to expect for Illya's response, isn't sure if he wants to see him get angry; but he also can't think of any possible time that this would be appropriate. Napoleon thinks he needs to at least satiate this curiosity, even if he'll step on one of his nerves. 

"Yes," Illya says, patient, and Napoleon feels like his heart has stopped. He doesn't expect him to burst in anger, no, but he'd expected Illya to get somewhat defensive. He has a right to, after all, Napoleon wasn't particularly nice about the subject of his mother when they started talking in that cafe, two years ago. 

He takes a look at Illya's fingers. None of them are tapping, and Napoleon reaches in to curve his hand around his neck. He leans in to press a swift kiss to Illya's lips, clinging tighter when they part against his. His hand spreads across Napoleon's back, and he feels close to dissolving. It's unmentionable, how Illya feels like coming home and running away at the same time. 

Napoleon ends up straddling Illya on the couch, with his neck burning and Illya's shirt undone. When they part, Illya wraps his hands around his dog tags and asks, "is this your real name," and Napoleon tells him the truth. 

Napoleon is pressing his fingers against Illya's bared chest when he inhales, deeply. "My mother, she is in Ukraine," Illya says, eyes searching, and Napoleon hitches his breath at the blue he finds there, impossibly warm. "She is in good health. Spends her time baking cookies." 

"Doesn't explain your ability to ruin every single dish you try and make, Peril."

"Oh really. I thought you were pretty happy doing it by yourself."

Napoleon shrugs, shifting his weight, fully aware of the effect he has on Illya, who groans and clutches his hands onto his waist. "Cowboy," Illya warns, and Napoleon reaches down to run his fingers along his length, uncaring.

"Peril."

He leans his forehead to Illya's, feeling his breath warm the side of his cheek. Napoleon feels a little shaky, feeling his watch dig into his skin, like they're both back in Rome again, moments before they knew they were going to be partners, moments before they could have killed each other. 

What if he hadn't stolen that watch back for him? 

"Don't you look pleased," Napoleon whispers and grinds back down onto his lap, plastering a smug expression onto his face. 

"If you had someone squirming on your lap, you'd be pleased too," Illya huffs. 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. "So you're pretty happy with me just sitting here, then. No reason why I should move." 

"Cowboy," Illya warns, "don't tease."

Napoleon grins, leaning down to place a trail of kisses along Illya's jawline. He gasps when he feels Illya's hands slide underneath his trousers.

"Do you miss Russia," Napoleon sighs, pressing back against Illya's palms, "because I think you're doing a pretty good job with embodying the climate with your hands."

Illya blinks at him, face blank, until it breaks out with a smile, bright and unguarded and _beautiful_. Napoleon doesn't know what else to do but stare, because U.N.C.L.E. could take this from him any time now, and he doesn't think he could steal Illya back, when that happens.

"You really do look more handsome with your mouth shut," Illya fixes him a look, and his hands move from his ass to bracket his thighs. 

Napoleon laughs, lightly. "I thought you liked it wide open."

"That too," Illya says, eyes hooded. 

"I think I can arrange something."

Illya rolls his eyes at him, but his voice is warm. "How convenient, Cowboy."

"Don't you want to take advantage of this convenience," Napoleon winks at him, gleeful, and thinks that maybe this could work; asking questions instead of stealing any answers. 

***

Napoleon is trying to cook when he sees Illya barge into the house, evidently irritated by something. 

"Good evening to you too, Peril," he drawls, turning around briefly to see if any of their paintings are in any trouble. "Why do you look like you're about to strangle my cactus?"

Illya whips around, eyebrows narrowed, but at least his fingers aren't tapping onto anything. Yet. 

"They sent Gaby into mission. Is not safe." 

Napoleon has to hide the urge to crack a smile. Illya's overprotectiveness is _adorable_ , really; he probably thinks that all of them are in danger of dying when someone sneezes. "She'll be fine. She's a capable agent."

"I know," Illya snaps, but seems to reside a little as he takes another look towards the kitchen. "Spaghetti?"

Napoleon shrugs. "Didn't really know what to cook," he admits, leaving the stove to kiss the corner of Illya's mouth. 

"Mission is not good," Illya says, once his frustration subsides into something like worry. 

Napoleon inhales deeply, considering. "Why do you think so?" 

"I don't know." 

Napoleon blinks, taken by surprise. Out of the two of them, Illya is the one with more experience on the field, and he supposed that his instincts must surely account for something. "What are you going to do?" 

"Go after her," Illya replies, not missing a beat. "Will you come with me?" 

Napoleon doesn't hesitate to say yes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still dk what i'm doing

"This mission," Napoleon says, just to fill up the comfortable silence that stretches between them, "what's it on?"

Illya has his eyes trained on the road, but Napoleon can appreciate that he still bothers to reply. He's not exactly talkative when he's in a bad mood. "There is file that needs retrieving," he says. "Has U.N.C.L.E. information, not sure what. Confidential."

"Hmm," Napoleon says. "And you're invested in it."

"Might be compromising," Illya responds, and Napoleon looks at him, properly this time, and notes the crease in his forehead.

Napoleon drops the topic. "Alright," he ceases, and feels Illya's fingers wrapping around his own, comforting.

***

They're pulling up at the destination when Gaby is there, hair tousled and face pinched in a grimace.

Napoleon hurries out from the passenger seat, rushing forwards to steady her as she buckles a little from her wound. "Gaby—"

"Napoleon," Gaby smiles at him in turn, and he feels a slight kind of relief in believing Illya, before. "You boys aren't necessary here, I'm afraid."

Illya's hands around the steering wheel are clenched tight. "You are okay?"

"I'm fine," she bites out, and Illya narrows his eyes at her, slightly. Napoleon is curious to see what he'd do next, which is probably something along the lines of setting the place on fire. "But it doesn't explain why we're still here."

Napoleon concurs. "She has a point, Peril."

Except: when Napoleon is done helping Gaby into the backseat, Illya is out of the car, and walking towards the building. He doesn't even know why he's still surprised, at this rate. Illya is brash and quick to act without thinking first, because that man has brawn and he knows it. Which is all rather unfortunate, considering that it's going to land him into deep trouble, some day.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Napoleon slides himself in front of Illya, an eyebrow raised.

"Investigating the mission," Illya says.

"I don't think it's within your parameters to do so—"

"That doesn't mean anything," Illya interrupts, and Napoleon rolls his eyes, looking towards Gaby, who's watching all this unfold with a rather amused expression on her face. Right. _Of course_ she's having fun when they're like this, never mind her open wound. Napoleon sighs.

"Cowboy," Illya presses a hand to his waist, and Napoleon stops, giving him his best unimpressed look. Which does not faze Illya in the slightest, but it makes its point.

"Peril," he says, parting his lips slightly when Illya leans in for a kiss, brief and slightly messy. Napoleon tries not to think about how ridiculous it is, that Illya is capable of using such a chaste thing as a bargaining chip.

He rolls his eyes when Illya deepens the kiss, cupping his face with one stupidly-monstrous hand. Napoleon thinks Gaby is cheering from the car.

"Fine. Do whatever it is that Lenin whispers to you in your dreams," he says when Illya pulls away, face still-tingling from his hand. "Don't get yourself killed."

"I won't," Illya says, and Napoleon thinks he believes him, that he probably wouldn't stop, even if he had to.

***

By the time they get back to headquarters, it's dawn.

"Well, we're all rather fortunate that nothing amiss happened, now, aren't we," Waverly says, still on that stupid smug chair, and Napoleon wonders if he has a screwdriver, somewhere. Surely that thing wouldn't miss a few bolts if they were gone.

Napoleon makes himself comfortable on the chair opposite him. "Yes, and Kuryakin is still missing from trying to retrieve the file you sent Teller for, and _she_ is getting stitched up. Because this is only a simple mission you sent her on, nothing too complicated, right?"

Waverly looks away, and Napoleon feels slightly silly for his outburst, but refuses to apologise for it.

"You are right, Solo," he says, after a period of time, "I had misjudged the situation. But don't let whatever you have with Agent Kuryakin cloud your head."

Napoleon reels back, feeling slightly stunned. He doesn't think Gaby had told him anything, but he supposes that there is no point in keeping this from him. He's the handler, after all, he would've known either way. But what would Illya say?

Waverly shifts a few papers around his desk, meeting his gaze. "Solo," he says, like he's talking to a spooked deer, "it's hardly anything one could miss."

"That _is_ true," Napoleon raises his eyebrows, trying to affect nonchalance, but he knows that Waverly isn't fooled. "We're not exactly subtle about it."

He agrees, and Napoleon steals a cigar from his desk, feeling petty.

"Go home, Solo," Waverly says, "wait for your partner."

***

Napoleon does as he's told and waits for Illya, but he doesn't come back.

Two days pass, and he thinks of London, the guns on the coffee table, and the paintings still stored somewhere above the fireplace.

He wonders what he'll do if Illya doesn't reappear. Sell the paintings, probably. Refurnish the place, live in one of Shanghai's hotels. Maybe spy on Illya's mother, if he has the time.

Run away from U.N.C.L.E..

All plausible, Napoleon knows. It's just too bad that they don't sound like anything he'd want to do alone.

***

Gaby comes over to accompany him. Which is barely surprising, in the least, even if her legs are bandaged and the stitches are still healing: he's not a hypocrite when it comes to injuries, so Napoleon lets her be.

"How long has it been," she breaks the silence when they're on their fifth glass, the television humming faintly in the background. "A week?"

"And a day," Napoleon shrugs, rubbing a hand over his coarse face. "Eight days, that makes."

Gaby looks at him, solemn, and takes another sip. "I didn't know you drew," she says.

Napoleon registers the sketchbook he left on the table, flipped to Illya's jaw. Gaby is looking at him, soft, and it feels good to know that he isn't the only one affected by this ridiculous beast of a man, that  _idiot_. 

"I do," he smiles, flopping back onto the sofa, and waves a hand when Gaby gestures towards it.

Gaby has finished looking at all of the pages when she says, "these are all of Illya."

"Yeah," Napoleon refills his glass with more scotch, pushing aside the chessboard to make room for the bottle.

"Didn't really feel like drawing anything else."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mean i've been saying this all the time but i _do_ write this on my phone and looking back... what i've written so far is nowhere near my actual standards (on a computer) and yeah. idk. i'll get my computer fixed and then the rest of the fic fixed too i promise [cry


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is unbeta'd. also not proofread BUT I PROMISE I WILL DO IT WHEN I'M NOT DELIRIOUS

It's midnight when the door swings open.

"Cowboy," Illya says, trousers streaked with mud and a grin on his face. Napoleon can't really recall a time that he's been happier to see him like this, damaged and bloody but all the more stunning.

"Peril," he greets in return, and lifts himself from the couch, staggering. "I wasn't sure if you'd come back." He takes a few steps closer, slamming Illya to the wall—which isn't a very considerate thing to do, considering his condition. But Illya isn't the KGB's golden boy for nothing; Napoleon thinks he could be forgiven for this: he just wants to see the challenge flash in his eyes, quick hot and achingly familiar, all his.

"I told you," Illya breathes, and Napoleon feels the angles of his face, presses in further until he has nowhere to go, "I stay alive."

He exhales, and Napoleon surges up to kiss him, not quite angry but unbearably close. He's reminded of London, oddly, the trace of gunpowder still lingering on Illya's clothes, and his fingers itches for a pencil.

"Stay that way." Napoleon leans his head onto Illya's shoulder and grasps him, as tightly as he thinks Illya could manage. "Are you hurt, anywhere?"

Illya shakes his head, and Napoleon loosens his hold on him, a little.

"Okay," he blinks, taking a step back, but Illya grabs his waist, tugging him closer.

"Cowboy," Illya says, eyes narrowed, and Napoleon forces himself not to look away.

"I'm fine," he bites out, "I'm hardly the one you should be asking after, Peril—I _do_ know you're a spy." Napoleon laughs, but it's shaky and awkward and even a giant dunce like Illya could see through him like this, fists clenched and eyes darting.

"I know," Illya whispers, and Napoleon feels his hand wrap around the back of his neck, cold to the touch. He misses that, he realises, the stupid winter Illya lugs around in his body, "I am glad."

"Are you."

Illya rolls his eyes, and Napoleon grins, closing in on the small distance between them to rest his forehead onto Illya's. "It was dreadfully boring without you, Peril."

"I can imagine," Illya says, dryly, and Napoleon bites onto his bottom lip, eliciting something like a gasp. There's a thigh slipping in between his legs, and he rocks down on it, letting Illya pull him forwards to claim more of his mouth.

Napoleon's breath hitches, and he grips at the fabric of Illya's jacket, feeling for the zipper before yanking it off his torso. He took a moment to appreciate the warmth of him, pressing his palms against Illya's chest as he pulled away.

"I don't know if I could," Napoleon starts to say, but the words die down on his tongue as he grows uncertain.

Illya nudges him, and he snaps back to himself, shaking his head. He decides on undoing the buttons of Illya's shirt instead, feigning confusion, "—it's nothing."

Napoleon swallows, and he sees something soften behind Illya's eyes. He's not sure if it's desire, but it doesn't seem like anything else either; just that it's more cutting than what he's used to seeing, more... concerned.

"It's not nothing," Illya curls his fingers around Napoleon's wrist, stopping him from sliding the fabric over his shoulders entirely. Napoleon sees the blood and thinks that at least it's not Illya's. Not this time.

Napoleon shrugs, when he remembers that Illya is still waiting for a response. "Ignore that," he says, and pulls the shirt off him completely.

"You are hard to ignore," Illya admits, and Napoleon feels something tugging at his chest. He leans back in to press his lips to Illya's, going pliant as Illya half-rips the shirt he has on. Napoleon makes a disapproving sound against Illya's mouth.

"I will buy you more of those," Illya says, as Napoleon invests in ridding him of his trousers. "Or better ones. These are ugly."

Napoleon smirks, "you're ugly."

"Really," Illya pouts mockingly, snaking a hand downwards to grope at Napoleon's ass.

Napoleon gasps when he feels him on his bare skin, jumping a little to Illya's cold touch. "Kind of," he bites out, rocking forwards onto his thigh.

He swallows when he feels one of Illya's fingers at his hole, cock jerking minutely. "Although I'm sure you're rather dashing to all our kind neighbours," he says, feeling a little shaky.

"Hmm," Illya says in response, and Napoleon draws away, stepping out of his trousers. "Bed?" He suggests, looking over his shoulder.

"Unless you want to do it on the floor, Cowboy. But I am not adverse to that."

Napoleon grins as he flicks the light switch on, feeling Illya's lips latch onto the side of his neck as he comes up behind him. "I don't even know why I lost sleep over you. Clearly you aren't too damaged."

Illya pauses, and Napoleon grinds back down on the cock that's pressing against his ass, startling a barely-there laugh from Illya.

"You lost sleep over me," he mumbles, and Napoleon shrugs. "Cowboy—were you sleeping on the sofa?"

Napoleon chooses not to respond to that. A man can pick his own battles.

A silence stretches on between them, but Napoleon doesn't do anything about it, just stands there to feel Illya's breath on his shoulder, his hands around his waist. He thinks about breaking away, about running out—but it's Illya. Napoleon doesn't have to steal the answers to all his questions.

"Is that a problem?" He sighs, going for a light tone, and Napoleon can feel Illya shift behind him, returning to their former embrace.

Illya twists to kiss his cheek, brief, and asks, "why would it be?"

"I don't know," Napoleon confesses, turning to face him, "I thought that it might be simpler. If there were."

"Napoleon," Illya sighs, and mouths at his earlobe, inciting a shudder, "you are the least simple person I know."

"Oh," he says, grinning at Illya, who walks them backwards until they collapse on the bed, breathless.

Napoleon thinks that he's probably going to combust into flames sometime soon. He's unsure like this, uncertain if at this present moment, he's supposed to say anything or go down on two knees ( _that,_ , he likes the idea of), but with the way Illya is looking at him now, stupidly handsome and unbelievably real—he doesn't know if anything he does next will correctly describe how much he wants him, gut-deep and vicious.

So he settles on lacing their fingers together, a blush forming high on his cheeks which is... completely _ridiculous_ , to say the least. But Illya is grinning at him idiotically, and Napoleon's at a loss for words.

"Cowboy," Illya says, pressing down on him, his thighs bracketing Napoleon's sides as he kisses a trail from his chest to his jaw. It's probably not very healthy to leave Napoleon hanging like this, he thinks. "Tell me you didn't forget where the lube is," Napoleon groans, bucking up when their cocks rub together, slick.

"How is it possible with you around," he mumbles, and Napoleon moans somewhat wantonly, back arching as Illya slides a lube-coated finger into him, slow.

Napoleon licks his lips, unconsciously, and Illya groans, leaning down to suck a deep bruise onto his collarbone as he adds another finger. "I think I'll start dying if you don't hurry up," he pouts, clutching his hands onto Illya's back. He hopes it leaves marks. Preferably the ones that don't fade.

"Shut up," Illya says, and Napoleon puts more force into clawing him, out of spite, "or you could finish this by yourself."

Illya's fingers crook upwards, and Napoleon can feel some of his weight on his cock when he slides his tongue into Napoleon's mouth. "Even you wouldn't be so cruel," he whispers as Illya enters him again with three fingers, trying not to pant. "Be a— _ah_ —gentleman, Peril, won't you?"

Illya snickers, and Napoleon feels like throwing a shoe at him, if he wasn't so intent on getting that stupid giant inside him first. "Are you laughing at my needs," he deadpans, hips raising off the bed as Illya works at his cock, smearing an unnecessary amount of lube onto himself.

"You are very noisy, Cowboy."

Napoleon sighs theatrically, kicking Illya over in a manoeuvre that has him straddling Illya's lap. He shrugs at the raised eyebrow, and says, "you're slow."

"You're hard to please," Illya quips, and Napoleon squints at him. After a few seconds, he seems to relent. "Okay," he says, grinning, "you do what you want," despite his cock, which is straining against Napoleon's fist.

He takes a deep breath and positions it against his rim, pulling his weight down. Illya groans underneath him, and Napoleon winces a little from the swiftness. Maybe he was a bit _too_ eager.

"Too fast?" Illya runs a hand along his thigh, and Napoleon presses his thumb to his bottom lip. There's a trace of blood right underneath it, and what seems like soot somewhere on his forehead. Napoleon doesn't mind them so much, really, might even pick a pencil up to draw this, someday.

"No," Napoleon shrugs, and picks up his pace. His thumb moves to wipe off the blood on Illya's chin.

"I'm good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DIDNT PROOFREAD THIS OK I'M SHY IDK HOW TO WRITE PORN IM INNOCENT


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I uh, kinda got really fucking sappy.

"Illya," Napoleon says, just to test out the shape of his name on his lips, wanting to ask: _what was in the file, was it worth nearly dying over,_ but doesn't. The words die out on his tongue.

He thinks about Illya, always at the verge of dying, again and again. Napoleon doesn't remember why he does this: if he fell into the career, if they lured him into it, if the Russians had somehow cracked it into his brain that it was his only way out.

 _Doesn't matter,_ Napoleon thinks, _he's with me, now_.

Illya raises his head to look at him, patient. "Napoleon?"

He's sitting at the table, a hand curled around a chess piece, and the other brushing against his mouth in thought. The sight is so unbearably domestic that Napoleon remembers that he's forgotten, for a moment, what Illya is. What the both of them are, actually.

"I just wanted to know," he clears his throat, pencil stilling on fine paper, "if you still wanted a copy of that book by Fitzgerald," Napoleon says, suddenly remembering the book he'd purchased on the second day after he's come back from New York. "I've got it somewhere, in the bedroom."

It doesn't erase the tension, but Napoleon's not exactly surprised. Illya is observant, especially so around him.

Napoleon has Illya's full atention now, absolute. The lazy eye contact Napoleon is used to has sharpened in this instant, because Illya goes through the effort to make a distinction between work and what they have. He's slightly worried that Illya is going insane, indulging him like this way.

What they have isn't going to work, he knows. Illya might tolerate his whims, but he's made for pulling triggers, slicing necks, even looks that way: comfortable in danger with all the power collecting in his rough hands, the curves of his fists.

"Napoleon," Illya says, gently prodding, and he's acutely aware of how the long vowels feel like they're stripped raw. There's emotion there, the kind that Napoleon doesn't think he wants to know about, soft and yielding, "the file was yours."

He nods sharply, looking down to the sketchbook where he was drawing something of the cactus Illya had bought him, a few weeks ago. "Did you give it back to U.N.C.L.E.?"

"No," Illya admits, and Napoleon is jerked back to the memory of him catching a watch in a Roman hotel room. Neither of them have changed that much, but Napoleon thinks he could. For him.

"I assume it's updated," he says, standing to look away, towards the window view. "What do they know?"

"Some of your covers' names, birthplace, address in London."

"Bad news," Napoleon breathes out, searching for the scotch in their alcohol cabinet. He pours himself a full glass and downs it all, making quick calculations to see if he can get another apartment, when he has access to invisibility again. "U.N.C.L.E. had this file stolen, so I'm still compromised. They still know. I'm assuming you had the people that were looking for me killed?"

Illya doesn't comment on registering anything, but that is enough of an answer for Napoleon. He's a little touched, honestly, because Illya didn't have to; it was probably cleaner to have left without resolving the situation entirely.

He pours himself another glass, ignoring the look Illya is sending him, drawn in like he's... _worried?_

"It's going to be a bitch to wipe that information clean," Napoleon sprawls onto the sofa, legs propping up on the coffee table. There must be something about Illya today, because he's not threatening with any infliction of bodily harm. He plasters on a smile, feeling the weight of Illya's gaze. "But that's alright. Comes with the job, eh, Peril."

A heavy pause settles over them, and Napoleon is about to close his eyes to sleep when Illya says, "you don't need to destroy the data. I did it already."

He straightens, legs unfolding. "Did you?"

"Yes," Illya confesses, and Napoleon feels like the breath has been knocked out of him. Spies aren't sentimental people, not exactly. He knows this. He's not a spy by nature—but he's interacted with enough of them, have seen them play turncoat a million times that it's habitual, at this point, that he's expecting betrayal. Somewhere down the line, anyway, but not the way Illya is willing for wait for him, not like this. This patience is what makes an agent, the stillness behind a rifle, the waiting long and tedious and _necessary_. Napoleon knows about that, the long hours spent in the dark. It's been that way since he was a thief and now he's a spy: nothing changes that much. Just that his hands are dirtier; and his business is now less about the money and more about the dead.

People forget to hold onto the knowledge that Napoleon isn't a bad agent, but a rather skilled one, actually. Albeit very hesitant; his records are generally impressive (the C.I.A. hadn't fished him out of prison for nothing). They assume that people like him must have came in thick-skinned and oily, grease on his hands, and never mention the blood. Then, there are people like Illya, and surrounding him, always, is death on other people's tongues. They've got it the wrong way round, Napoleon thinks.

It's not the people you betray. It's the profession, it's the kill count rising up and above, always, no matter the agent. It's how much of that you want back into your life, who you don't make friends with, what you love.

A file drops on the coffee table, right beside Illya's stack of novels and Napoleon's pencils. It has his name on it (one of his first covers, the first forgery he's ever done), nondescript, and it's not in pristine condition. Which is to be expected, considering the state Illya came home to him in.

He's standing in front of the sofa now, hands tucked into his pockets. Illya looks so tentative that Napoleon can't help but tug him down, pressing a firm, chaste kiss to his lips. His hands come around to grasp him by the hips, and Napoleon smiles into Illya's mouth, the cold lighting up his skin and sending a shiver down his spine.

When they part, Illya's mouth is flushed, red, and Napoleon traces along the lines of his jaw. He feels the stubble that's been growing there for days, the half-assed job Illya did with cleaning it up that morning, and the bruise Napoleon left from the night before. There's a chance that he could deal with the consequences of staying, Napoleon thinks, if it means staying for _this_.

"You're too good for me," Napoleon laughs.

Illya's eyes crinkle. "Going soft, Cowboy?"

"Fuck you," he says, just to make that smile marginally wider. _This is mine_ , Napoleon thinks, _no one else can have this._

Napoleon leans in to kiss him again, slick and messy. He feels Illya's hand on his cheek, his father's watch lightly scraping the bottom of his chin. He thinks it's something he wants to get used to.

"Why," he demands, after some unknown quantity of time: a few seconds, three minutes, ten—he doesn't think he cares.

Illya is watching him, quiet, like he always is, tender and affectionate and sappy and everything Napoleon doesn't stand for. Like he's always done, he's looking into Napoleon's eyes, unwavering. Napoleon thinks he wants to follow Illya to the ends to the earth; New York, London, Berlin, Moscow, Rome.

"Cowboy," Illya says, softly, "I did it so you did not have to steal anything back. Not this time round."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to leave the last chapter the biggest, so i cut down on what i had for this chapter and like stuff, y'know?? stuff. where my cheerleading squad i need alcohol


	7. Chapter 7

He runs away.

***

Napoleon has the file in his jacket, tucked close to his chest. It’s strange to remember that Illya is still in bed, asleep. He’d spent his entire time left trying to pretend like he was going to be there the next morning—and Illya had graciously let him. Which doesn’t surprise Napoleon in the slightest; Illya had indulged him over and over and he’d thought, _one more time_ , please—and one more time happened.

Illya always did have too much patience with him. Even if it wasn’t apparent during any of their missions, it was still there, simmering in the background, and Napoleon didn’t know what to do with any of it. Wasn’t sure if this was how everybody treated anyone they love (or loved, Napoleon supposes), or if it was just him.

“London,” he tells the lady on the plane next to him with a borrowed accent, “going home to family.” It’s not a complete lie, no, not when he thinks of the paintings tucked away nicely in the fireplace, but the words sound bitter anyway.

She beams. “That sounds lovely.”

He shrugs. “I suppose so,” he smiles, his tongue suddenly dry, and moves a fraction away when she leans in.

She’s beautiful, really, delicate as a flower, but Napoleon finds that he doesn’t have much desire for flowers, not lately. He ignores the guilt churning in his stomach because he hasn’t even done anything yet, didn’t even start the conversation—and looks towards the window when she blushes, coy.

***

By some luck, he makes it back just in time when the landline rings.

“Why,” Gaby demands when he picks up, and Napoleon can almost see her like this, furious with a hand clasped on her waist.

He shrugs, settling down onto the sofa. It’s dusty, and needs cleaning, and Napoleon makes a mental note to call someone in to help him with that. He very decidedly does not think about who he's already left behind.

“Needed to breathe,” he says, after a moment of silence, because it felt like the right thing to say. “Didn’t know what to do about the file.”

“Is he with you?”

Napoleon inhales deeply, shuts his eyes. “No.”

“Don’t you think he has the right to be,” Gaby asks him, and he takes the file—still warm from his body—and flings it onto the coffee table.

He opens it to read all the names listed down below ‘Napoleon Solo’, tapping a finger against the location he’s currently in.

“Probably,” he says, and hangs up when the static gets too loud.

***

Three days pass.

Napoleon draws everything in sight. The view, mostly, or the chess board left on the dining table, closed, the novels stacked up neatly in their bookshelves, or the fireplace, which hasn’t been lit up, despite it being winter. The paintings are still in their original hiding place (he checked; Illya’s arms are so long he doubts any averagely-sized thief could manage to reach them without much effort), and everything is the way he’d expected it to be.

He goes out, sometimes. Around the neighbourhood where everyone knows him by name, one of the names that was listed down in his U.N.C.L.E. files.

“Where’s the tall fellow,” one of his neighbours asks, “the one that was with you last time?”

Napoleon stills, but he forces his posture to relax, assumes a laidback smile. “Back at New York.”

“Ah,” his neighbour says, and continues watering his plants. “He’d stuck around?”

“I guess so,” Napoleon says, before bidding him goodbye.

When he returns, he rips out the sketches he’d had of inanimate objects, leaves them to crumple inwards on themselves. Takes the paintings out of the fireplace, gingerly, and lays them on the dining table to inspect them. They’re still in good quality.

“Aren’t you beautiful,” he mutters, sliding down to the ground.

He falls asleep this way.

***

Napoleon hasn’t talked to anyone for a few days—meaning that a whole week has passed since he’s left New York.

It’s not so bad, he thinks. He cooks for himself, cleans the house. Rearranges the novels in his bookshelf over and over and stacks up most of his paintings in the fireplace. There’s a few new additions, he realises. They’re Russian.

He leaves his favourite painting out in the open, on the dining table. He doesn’t eat there, anyway, because the seat next to him is too empty and at least it’s not so quiet when he eats on the sofa, plate on his lap, with the television on.

The painting is French, all soft curves and vibrant colours and Napoleon loves it, tremendously. He remembers standing in the museum in broad daylight, fingers itching to touch as tourists swarm around him, oblivious. It’s understated, and not particularly famous—but he remembers Illya trailing behind that night, quick-footing with his gaze heavy on Napoleon’s back.

So he leaves it there to visit on the nights he can’t sleep (all of them), drinking to it. He’s forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a bed alone, untangled.

At least the painting keeps him company; but that’s no one’s fault but his own.

***

(The one time he dreams, it’s of Illya’s hands, the scar by his eyes. It’s the words _next time I come with you_ repeating over and over because it’s his fault; he shouldn’t have.

“So you did not have to steal anything back,” Illya says, across him in his dreams, in that cafe by the art gallery.

It’s not what he had to steal, Napoleon thinks when he wakes, it was what he had in the first place; or what he thought he did—never mind what he’s throwing away now. Heaven knows he can’t steal that back.)

***

Illya's sitting on the sofa when Napoleon gets back home one day, hands still full of groceries.

“Cowboy,” he says, head tilted up with a smile so hopeful that Napoleon’s gut clenches. And fuck, Illya looks beautiful, and Napoleon's dropping the bags to the ground, striding to meet him in the middle of the room.

They’re so close now that Napoleon can see the flecks in Illya’s eyes, who has his hand cupped around his cheek, like always, with the same chill to his body. Napoleon feels like he’s burning with regret and anger and guilt but Illya isn’t pulling away: he’s watching him, hesitant and cautious and Napoleon is itching to apologise and beg and ask him if he’s going to leave— _it was my fault, should have listened to myself in the beginning and stayed_. Instead he says: “I shouldn’t have.”

In his native language, Illya says, “who could have blamed you,” and Napoleon blinks back the wetness in his eyes to whisper, “I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

He smiles. “That’s my decision to make.”

Napoleon exhales, and they stand like this, breathing the same air. He thinks he’d never been so lucky.

“What’s your conclusion, then,” he whispers, afraid to hear the answer—but Illya is already pressing their lips together, tender.

Illya has his forehead resting against Napoleon’s even after they part, and Napoleon takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the soap Illya uses, the toothpaste they share, clinical but still feeling like _home_  and takes the opportunity to ask, “do you forgive me?”

He laughs, softly, and Napoleon remembers, at the beginning, about how he’d thought running away wasn’t such a good idea. It wasn’t. He knows that now.

“I already have.”

***

Illya head is on his lap, reading, when Napoleon asks, in Russian, “weren’t you angry with me?”

Illya closes the book and tosses it onto the coffee table. He hasn’t mentioned the file underneath it, still open, when he replies, “should I have been?”

Napoleon nods slowly, threading his fingers through Illya’s hair. He doesn’t quite dare meet his eyes, and settles his gaze onto the view outside the window instead. “I’d think so."

Illya pauses for a moment. It feels like forever, really, but Napoleon thinks that he needs to hear what comes out of his mouth next, that it was the least he could do for someone who’d… given freedom back to him, without having to ask.

Napoleon shifts minutely, and Illya’s eyes flicker to his. “You asked if I would come with you if you ran away.”

He swallows at the intensity of his gaze. “I did,” he confirms.

Illya straightens, grasping Napoleon’s chin to press a kiss to his forehead. “I hadn’t done that, when you left, even though I could have. You knew that. But U.N.C.L.E. knew what you were trying to hide, even though they don’t now, not anymore. If I reminded you of that—of not being able to leave, or being tied down for something you had never wanted—then I wouldn’t be much better, would I?”

He stills, and Napoleon doesn’t— _refuses—_ to look away. Not this time. “You aren’t U.N.C.L.E.. You never wanted to cage me in.”

“I realised that,” Illya says, gently. “It’s why I came for you.”

***

They’re hiding the last painting, Napoleon’s favourite, in the fireplace when snow starts to fall.

“Oh look,” Napoleon sighs, plopping down onto the floor to rest his arm on Illya’s bicep. “It’s you, in the form of the weather.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Illya’s rolling his eyes.

“I mean,” he continues, “we can’t light a fire up in here. So we’d be cold. You know what that calls for? I’ve got a few ideas.”

Illya’s voice is dry, but there’s warmth in it, and Napoleon thinks that it’s all he needs. “I can’t possibly imagine.”

He laughs, and tackles Illya onto the floor, holding his wrists to the ground, grip loose.

“Can’t you,” he grins, pulling himself down to slip his tongue into Illya’s mouth, who slides a hand up Napoleon’s arm. _Fuck it_ , Napoleon thinks, _I love winter_.

There's sunlight streaming in through their window, and it's hitting Illya’s face in all the right places, the lines sharp and clear. He wants to draw him like this, relaxed and comfortable and looking at him like he’s the sun. He wants to draw him _all the fucking time_.

Illya runs his thumb over his bottom lip, and says his name—the real one—out loud. Napoleon almost doesn’t recognise it, but catches it nonetheless. It feels like a confession, with the syllables melting together in Illya’s accent, their vowels slightly-muddled, perfect.

“I think I love you,” he says.

Illya blinks, twice, before the shyest smile Napoleon has ever seen surfaces, and the rest of the world melts away.

“Then let me stay,” he says, eyes glinting in the sunlight, “because I love you in return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....And that's it!!!
> 
> (btw i wrote this for six hours.... it's one in the morning right now idk what i'm doing i'm so tired pls excuse my mistakes)
> 
> Oh god that was such a ride, writing this fic, like you guys had no idea man this sucked the soul out of me. I tried my best to write it on my phone and the response I got was like, overwhelmingly positive so thanks to all of you for that! It's been such a pleasure going absolutely fucking nuts about fucking napollya i'm so tired of this ship ugh
> 
> This series is still incomplete because this is like my absolute baby okay like I CAN'T LET THE DOMESTIC GO. I just want to be happy ok I know this fandom is like obsessed with angst but..... Like..... Fluff? Yes?
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys think about this trash that I've written deliriously over the course of a few days. More like, please do... I'm... ok.
> 
> ok ok oko kok okok ok o ok
> 
> if you wanna hit me up on tumblr (please do):  
> [tmfu-centric tumblr!!!](http://illyaks.tumblr.com) | [poetry tumblr!!!](http://arquiense.tumblr.com)


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